


Kings of Christmas

by brokenlittleboy



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bottom Sam, Christmas, Competition, Cuddling & Snuggling, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff and Humor, Holidays, Love Confessions, M/M, Men of Letters Bunker (Supernatural), Mistletoe, Season/Series 15, Snowball Fight, Top Dean Winchester, Top Dean Winchester/Bottom Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-18 07:02:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21940144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brokenlittleboy/pseuds/brokenlittleboy
Summary: During the holidays at the bunker, Sam and Dean engage in a tense competition over who can decorate the bunker the best. Things get out of hand, but in a good way.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 40
Kudos: 221





	Kings of Christmas

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry for posting so late this year, I didn't sign up for SPN J2 Xmas and I have been whack busy.
> 
> Please enjoy!

Sam slung his backpack over his shoulder. He looked back at Dean, who was at one of the library tables staring at his laptop with a constipated frown. “Be back in 20.”

Dean’s eyes flicked up to his. “Bring back Funyuns.”

Sam restrained an eyeroll. “Seeya.”

Dean’s eyes went back to the computer screen turning his face white-blue. “Seeya.”

Sam opened the door, stepped outside, and recoiled like a turtle escaping into its shell.

It was cold, and things were stinging his face. 

His first reaction was to fight, to swallow down flashbacks. He froze.

It was snowing.

The previously brown and yellowed rolling hills and forests that surrounded the bunker were cloaked in a soft, sloping blanket of white snow, the tree branches laden with Thomas Kinkade-ian boughs of snow. 

The sky was a muted grey and the world was quiet. The quiet of a snowy morning was like nothing else. When he was little, Sam used to stand on the motel stoop at sunrise in January and watch the early risers drive to work with sleepy-lidded eyes. It was like meditation.

It took him a minute, but the tension eased out of his shoulders, and he was able to slip back into that mindset.

Into the head of a kid praying for a snow day so he could stay inside with his family.

So Sam ran back inside like a kid. Dean’s head snapped up, eyes huge.

“Dean,” Sam gasped, and Dean was already standing. “Come outside!”

Dean was running toward him, no questions asked, and Sam bolted back outside. Dean was hot on his heels, and barrelled right into him when he stopped. They both fell into a snowbank. 

Dean sputtered. “What the hell, man--”

“Look!” Sam chirped, nose red from snow. “Look.”

Dean looked. He took in their surroundings, his Code Red turning into a wry smile of annoyance and amusement. “This is what you wanted to show me?”

Sam stood up, dusting himself off and helping Dean up. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen the bunker like this.”

“Yeah, well, it’s nice,” Dean said.

Part of Sam’s soul was vehemently opposed to Dean not finding the same wonder in their winter wonderland. “We have gloves, right?” Before Dean could answer, he added, “wanna have a snowball fight?”

Something glinted in Dean’s eye, and Sam knew before Dean even spoke that it was on.

***

Their snowball fights always started with a cold war, a tentative peace. They both intimidated each other with increasingly bulky and protective snow forts and piles of icy, rocky death snowballs. 

As a kid, Sam was a bit of a bastard. He’d distract Dean and bolt over to smash Dean’s snowball pile. 

As an adult, Sam knew Dean was keen on revenge.

He took precautions. 

His own artillery was carefully protected in its own snow fort room. He had a decoy room where he’d placed a few shittier snowballs above its walls so Dean would believe Sam had a massive pile stocked there. Sam’s fort looked like a tall, central structure, but it was mostly dug into the snow banks on either side of the main structure, and it was in those hollows that he planned to start his attack.

Sam wasn’t the biggest fan of his height, but one advantage was his killer pitching arm. Sam knew he could nail Dean with decent accuracy from behind his fort, and he was fairly confident Dean didn’t have the same skill.

With every move, Sam eyed Dean in his periphery. Every time Dean was completely hidden behind his own Impala-shaped fort, Sam got a little more anxious. Dean had to be planning something, too, and Sam wanted to be ready.

Sam was sculpting some snow projectiles when a soft snowball went plap into the packed snow by his side. He snorted. He peered out one of his arrow slit windows. “Is that the best you’ve--”

His entire field of view was taken up by Dean’s torso. Dean shouted a war cry before throwing his whole body into Sam’s fort, decimating part of the main wall.

Sam squawked in indignation. He was able to get a good shot to Dean’s face before Dean retreated. Face heated, Sam loaded up both of his arms with some sharp, angular snow projectiles, and lobbed them at Dean’s fort.

One of them hit snow with a muted thump, taking a decorative spike out of Dean’s fort, and the other one turned a thatch of spiky hair white. Sam could hear Dean curse from where he crouched.

Sam popped up just long enough to scream “fucker!” and no longer.

Things got messy fairly quickly, their war going from trench warfare to man-to-man combat and dirty trickery almost immediately. Sam hid smaller snowballs between his fingers and shoved them down Dean’s shirt and pants as fast as he could. 

Dean’s favorite tactic was just to mash his freezing cold and smelly (particularly smelly? Of nether regions? Sam didn’t want to guess) fingers into Sam’s face to daze and blind him. 

Dean wasn’t artful, but he was thorough, and Sam wanted to end this, once and for all.

Sam had lost their last snowball war and he’d carried the shame with him for decades. It was time to give Dean a taste of that feeling, and Sam was willing to suffer even a pyrrhic victory to make it happen.

Sam waited for a weakness in Dean’s abdomen before launching himself at Dean, wrapping his arms around Dean’s middle and tackling him to the ground. Dean landed in the snow with a muted whump and Sam pinned him in place. 

He unbuttoned Dean’s shirt and pants. Dean’s eyes were wide with shock, but even so, he tried to smile. “Sammy, at least take me on a date first--”

Sam didn’t respond. He was too busy packing massive, dirty piles of snow--yellow piles of snow--from one of his hidden repositories into Dean’s armpits and between his legs.

Dean screamed, a high pitch scream, and Sam cackled. 

Dean tried to fight back but he was weakened by the snow. Sam packed him in, burying him in snow. 

“I yield! I yield!” Dean’s cries were tired and breathless. 

Sam held up another yellow snowball to Dean’s face. Dean swallowed.

“Say it,” Sam said.

Dean rolled his eyes.

“Sammy, you’re not still twelve, are you?”

Sam pushed it closer to Dean’s face. “Say it.”

“Sam is the snow king,” Dean said. “All hail Sam.”

Sam tossed the snow over his shoulder and helped Dean up. He anticipated Dean’s movements and side-stepped before Dean could tackle him, leading to Dean faceplanting in the snow.

Dean looked up at him with a withering glare. “Screw you.”

Sam smiled. He smiled so hard it hurt.

And he swore when he went back inside to take a much-needed hot shower, he saw Dean grinning, too.

***

Sam did get his errands done, just a bit later than anticipated. He liked how Lebanon looked caked in snow, liked seeing people walking around in big puffy parkas, boots, and scarves.

He snagged a few extra things from the grocery store, chatting amicably with the cashier while he checked out. 

When he double-checked his receipt in the car, reusable grocery bags piled up in the back seat, he saw a phone number scrawled along the bottom in pen. 

Sam smiled again.

He just couldn’t seem to stop.

***

Sam kicked open the front door, arms laden with grocery bags. It was a veritable work out.

“Dean?” he called. “Did you want regular Funyuns or barbeque? I got both.”

He looked down and saw Dean frozen in place like a deer in the headlights. “It’s not what it looks like,” Dean rushed out.

Sam thunked down the steps, dropping his grocery weights when he reached the bottom. “Is that a Christmas tree?”

Dean looked back at the pine tree laying across the library table like it had magically teleported there. “I dunno, maybe.”

“Did you cut that down?”

Dean’s eyes flicked to a chainsaw laying carelessly on the ground surrounded by sawdust. “No?”

“Do we have a tree stand?”

Sam watched that realization hit Dean head-on. “No.”

Sam spun around, grabbing his backpack and heading back up the steps. “Be back in twenty, again.”

***

By the time they put the tree up in the stand, laid down the tree skirt, and started stringing lights, Dean was in a lighter mood, matching Sam. They bantered, criticizing each other’s light-hanging skills and fighting for ornament placement. The store Sam went to didn’t have a big selection so their ornaments were pretty basic shiny, colorful spheres. Sam had a few unique ones bookmarked on his phone to maybe give Dean and start a tradition. If Dean would be into that.

They reached a good place in the tree decoration process, surrounded by plastic boxes and other Christmas-related detritus. Sam stepped back while Dean crouched by the power adapter “on” switch.

Dean looked up at Sam, looking ten years younger in his giddiness. He was practically vibrating. “You ready?”

Sam nodded. His throat was kind of full. “More than.”

Dean looked at him for a beat longer, then flicked the switch.

The tree lit up. 

It was huge, at least a ten footer, jesus christ Dean, how the hell did you cut that thing down and get it inside. 

And the lights were so awful. There were huge blank spots, and glaring spaces covered in multiple strands. The ornaments looked nice, though, the star on top slightly askew.

It was perfect. 

Dean got up and hurried to Sam’s side, looking up at it beside him.

Dean slapped Sam heavily on the back, making Sam cough. “She’s beautiful,” Dean proclaimed. “Baby Two.”

Sam’s forehead scrunched up. “We’re not calling it Baby Two.”

Dean silently mocked Sam with a stupid looking face. “You got a better idea, big brain?”

“Douglas.”

Dean scoffed four or five times in rapid succession. “What kind of idiotic name is Douglas?”

Sam gestured at the tree. “It’s a Douglas Fir.”

Dean’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh.”

Sam shook his head.

“Well, Baby Two is just the beginning,” Dean said. “I’m gonna make this place look like Santa creamed his big red pants all over the place.”

“Vulgar, and you’re right,” Sam snapped back. “Douglas is the start to a very festive bunker.”

They narrowed their eyes at each other.

It was on. 

And Sam knew Dean would do anything to attain their newest title:

The King of Christmas.

***

Sam took one of the Men of Letters’ jalopies out while Dean commandeered Baby. He saw her black hardtop several times while he was out in town gathering supplies. Sam even made a stop out in Lawrence, where there was a well-known all-year-round Christmas superstore.

By the time he came back home, Dean had already gotten started, placing tacky paper fat baby angels up on the library chandeliers and hooking plastic garlands along the bannister of the front staircase. 

Sam rolled his eyes at Dean’s weak attempt. 

He was halfway done with his Christmas Village in the back of the room, complete with fake snow and holiday-themed working light posts and mailboxes, when the door creaked open and Dean thundered down the stairs with bags.

Dean stopped, peering over at Sam’s work. He hid how impressed he was well. “Amateur hour, huh?” he said, walking past Sam and toward the kitchen. 

Sam tried to see what was in Dean’s arms to no avail. “And what shoddy project are you failing at?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know!” Dean called back, his voice echoing as he disappeared down the hallway.

Sam finished his Christmas Village right before dinner. He’d had a bit of trouble planning out a good route for his train, but deciding on putting the tunnel behind the Christmas Cabin had turned out to be a phenomenal move. He stood back, admiring his snowy mountains, forests, and town square, complete with park and pagoda and ice skating children.

It was then he realized a delicious smell was wafting out of the kitchen. His mouth watered.

Sam followed the smell and found Dean bustling around in the kitchen, wearing a “Gangster Wrapper” apron and gingerbread cookie-themed oven mitts.

There was a spread already out on the table, including green bean casserole, one of Sam’s all-time favorites; a cranberry salad, another favorite; and endless other tasty treats. The foods that were laid out were in stark contrast to each other, as some were clearly Dean-oriented and others Sam.

Dean turned around when he heard Sam. “You like what you see?”

Sam crept in like he was in a museum. “Dean, it’s not even Christmas yet.”

Dean snorted. “This is just a preview. This is to get you wetting yourself.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “You won’t win.”

“YoU wonT wIN,” Dean mocked. “Want some sugar cookies?”  
  


Sam sat at the table. “God, yes.”

***

Sam sat back, sinking into the plush couch cushions with a groan. He was stuffed. He felt like he was pregnant with a food baby. He wasn’t looking forward to the porcelain delivery in a few hours.

But for now, he was sated. He was motherfucking content. And he was sitting on the couch squashed up against Dean under a blanket in a rare moment of peace while they watched _Die Hard_ , a true Christmas classic.

Sam sipped from his hot chocolate (with a pump of vanilla ‘cause Dean was showing off, however affectionately) while he listened to Alan Rickman monologue.

Dean grunted while he stretched his toes out. “I can’t wait for the air vents part,” he said. “That’s my favorite.”

“Hmm.” Sam yawned. He shifted, trying to get comfortable. His eyelids felt heavy. His neck too. He heard rustling, and then Dean’s arm was wrapping around him, herding Sam’s head down onto Dean’s shoulder.

Sam yawned again, closing his eyes and snuggling close, all inhibitions gone. “Thanks,” he murmured.

“No problem, kiddo,” Dean whispered back.

Sam fell asleep.

***

When Sam woke up, he was back in their bed, with Dean pressed up behind him, spooning him. 

Since they’d gone back to sharing a room and a bed, he’d woken up like this many times. 

They always went to sleep on either side of the bed, and woke up tangled up together. Sam swore it was never a conscious decision. Their bodies just gravitated toward each other.

That phrasing made Sam’s cheeks go red.

Still, whenever he woke like this, he usually untangled himself from Dean and went about the day before Dean woke up a few hours later. He wasn’t even sure if Dean knew it happened.

Today, though, Sam knew it was snowy and cold outside and warm and Christmasy inside.

And, in a rare and infrequent turn of events, Sam was in a good mood. A persistent one.

And sue him, he fucking missed this, alright, and nothing lowered his blood pressure and cleared his head like a Dean Winchester cuddle.

So Sam snuggled a bit closer, raised the blankets above his shoulders, and sighed. He let his eyes close, just resting, not falling back asleep. His entire world was softness and comfort. 

“Mmm.” Sam flinched at the muttered syllable coming from behind him. Dean’s hand readjusted on his hip. “You stayin’ in?”

Sam didn’t know how to respond. 

Well, okay, he did.

“Yeah,” he said.

“‘Kay,” Dean said, in a yawn-voice. “But it’s back on after breakfast, y’hear?”

Sam smiled, closing his eyes again. “I hear.”

***

Dean was telling the truth: it was back on after breakfast.

They shared a quick breakfast of omelettes, OJ, and some of Dean’s leftovers, which Sam approved of as a healthy meal. The moment the dishes were done, though, Dean’s posture shifted into something more aggressive, something more defensive. 

“I call the living room,” Dean said, already walking away.

“What--hey! You can’t claim a whole friggin’ room!” Sam protested.

“Yes I can!” Dean called back.

“Then I claim the bedroom!” Sam shouted.

Dean bird-whistled back at him. Sam rolled his eyes. What an idiot. 

***

The first thing Sam did was order Dean some Christmas presents. Perfect ones, heartfelt ones, exactly what Dean had been wanting for ages. Things Sam could put a special spin on.

In case it was their last Christmas.

Sam wanted it to be real. Past all the bullshit. Just. Real.

Next, he entered the planning stage for their bedroom.

This was an important room, but difficult to decorate.

There was a certain level of implied sexuality to almost anything he considered. Then he had to backtrack after focusing too heavily on a SFW Christmas display. Wasn’t that weirder?

Sam settled on a simple theme: home. This room was their home, a permanent and customized motel room for them to ideally die in as old fucks. Or maybe somewhere else as old fucks.

Still, it had become home.

It was home because it belonged to both of them.

Sam intended to give it a homey Christmas feel.

He didn’t need anything designer or anything elaborate. 

If anything, what he needed was stupidly simple. 

He hoped Dean wouldn’t judge it, wouldn’t compare it to whatever huge fucking spectacle the living room was going to turn into. That wasn’t the behavior of a true King of Christmas.

All of Sam’s stops for his decorations were fairly humble places, places that had been owned by the same families for generations, where the grizzled owners treated him like family and asked him personal questions. He answered as honestly as he could without it getting weird.

The small town spirit of Lebanon was strong. He drove one of the bunker’s trucks home loaded with just what he wanted. He did a little shimmy dance in his seat as he drove, unable to contain his excitement. 

Back home, he and Dean called an armistice so they could bring things into the house without spoiling each other. They mapped out bunker paths, agreeing on turf barriers so they wouldn’t run into each other while decorating. 

It was tense, but it was exciting. The spirit of competition was pulsing through Sam’s veins, and taking cookie breaks wasn’t half bad either.

Before he knew it, Sam had finished decorating.

He hadn’t done much. The thought sent a burst of nervous energy shooting through his veins. He was gnawing on his nail beds when a knock at the door startled him. 

“Sammy?” Dean called, voice muffled by the door. “You gonna be done by bedtime?”

“Done now,” Sam said, cringing at the waver in his voice. “You gonna be done by movie time?”

“Already done, too,” Dean said. “So, uhh… shall we?”

“We shall.”

“‘Kay.” Dean knocked twice on the door in quick succession. “Meet in the kitchen in five.”

“Got it,” Sam called.

He took a moment to steady his breath, then pushed out into the hallway, making his way to the kitchen.

***

Dean, like some kind of fucking wizard, already had another delicious meal spread out by the time Sam arrived. 

They sat to eat in silence. Sam couldn’t get a proper read on the room. 

  
  


Once Sam was full to bursting, he knew it was time.

Time for the Grand Tour.

They started in the library, taking time to admire Sam’s Christmas Village and Dean’s weird holiday mishmash chaos. Next, they admired the Baby Douglas, now laden with more ornaments, and some mysterious presents underneath the tree’s pine needles. The hallways were decorated, too, with Sam’s boughs of holly and Dean’s Christmas pun posters. 

Dean went first, since the living room was closer. He went to the door, holding it open for Sam. 

Sam walked inside.

A laugh bubbled out of his quickly filling throat.

There was a little tree in the corner, a knitted blanket thrown over the couch, and a little bar set up on the side table, with hot cocoa, caramel corn, and some other snacks. A record player had been dragged in, crackling some Sinatra Christmas tunes. 

It wasn’t a spectacle. It was homey. The warm, yellowey lights draped across the ceiling and the piney candles gave the whole place a gentle glow and comforting scent.

Dean even had a fake window hung up on one wall showing a snowy mountain scene.

Dean mistook Sam’s silence for judgement. “It’s like you used to talk a lot about,” Dean rushed out. He waved his hands around. “You know… a Christmas cabin?”

“I do know,” Sam said, unable to keep a goofy smile from stretching across his face. “It’s perfect.”

“Well I--” Dean stopped short. “It is?”

“Yeah,” Sam laughed. “Yeah, I love it.”

“Good, ‘cause I got like, forty Christmas movies on VHS, and you’re gonna have to pick one of them tonight.” 

“My turn,” Sam said, practically vibrating, and led Dean out of the room.

He brought Dean to the door. They stood in front of it in silence. Dean looked at him. “You go,” Sam said.

So Dean did. He pushed open the door, walking into the room with the slow gait of someone staring at art pieces in a museum in awe.

Sam also had a little tree in the corner. He also had a knit blanket on the bed. He’d done his best to recreate the room they’d had during Dean’s last Christmas before hell. It was a special memory for them both. He’d hung up some shitty car air fresheners on the tree in the corner, found a stripey, old couch and a boxy TV at a resale store and set up a cozy little corner with a football game playing quietly. On Dean’s desk was a protein bar and some motor oil.

Dean spun around to quirk an eyebrow at Sam. “Sentimental, are we?”

Sam blushed. “Shut up. Do you like it?”

“Yeah,” Dean said, nodding, taking it in all over again. “Oh, yeah.”

It was now or never. Oh, fucking jesus christ it was now or never. Sam let out a breath. 

“There’s, uh, one more decoration.”

Dean squinted, looking around again. “Where? The nutcracker? I thought that was pretty low-hanging fruit, Sammy. Or should I say--”

“It’s right here,” Sam blurted out. He pointed at the ceiling.

Dean followed his gaze, tilting his neck and looking up at the taped little piece of--

“Is that mistletoe?”

Sam swallowed. “Uh, yeah.”

“And we’re standing under it.”

“Yup.”

“And that means--”

“I know. And it’s on the way to the bed. So every time we go to bed, we…”

Why was it so hard to say?

“Oh.” Dean nodded, pursing his lips. 

Sam knew he’d fucked up by the look on Dean’s face, that he’d misread everything, that he’d gone too far.

He was trying to find a way to back track or call it just a dumb prank when Dean got up on his tippy toes and pecked Sam on the cheek.

“Not like that,” Sam whispered.

He leaned forward and kissed Dean gently on the mouth. “I’m sorry,” he murmured. “It’s just, this is probably our last year, and I’m sick of pretending--”

“Hey. Shh.” Dean said, grabbing Sam’s hand. “I get it.”

“I’m sorry,” Sam said.

“Shut up,” Dean said. “Me too, though.”

“For what?”

Dean leaned forward, kissing him again. “For. You know. Well. Yeah.”

Sam’s eyes were watering, and he knew if he spoke again it would come out as a jagged rasp. Dean’s face creased up in sympathy. “Sammy--”

“I’m okay,” he said. “I just need to say it.”

He thought Dean would protest. Would crack a joke. Or, hell, run away.

Dean just waited for him to speak.

“I’m in love with you, man,” Sam said. “And it feels like all Chuck wants to do is take that away, and I thought we deserved one last good thing.”

“We do,” Dean said. “Wouldn’t have said that a year ago. But we do. Don’t think about him, okay? Just focus on me. Here. Fuck it.”

Dean kissed Sam again, but this time it was a real kiss, firm and deep, and Dean’s hands found Sam’s wrists and tugged Sam’s arms up and around Dean’s shoulders. Sam held on tight, and kissed Sam back.

They both started off closed off, awkward, a lot of persistent thoughts clouding their way.

But it got easier.

Sam trusted Dean.

His mouth slackened; Dean took a little more control, his tongue brushing into Sam’s mouth.

From there, it was like a spell took them over.

Something unlocked. A barrier disappeared.

And all they were left with was a long-awaited, desperate kind of honesty.

They kissed like their lives depended on it, and it became heated, hands wandering, breaths hitching.

Sam threw all of his reservations out the window, trying to show Dean with his actions what he felt, how long he’d felt it, and how deep it went. How real it was. How their souls were entwined.

Dean gave back just as much as Sam put out, and it wasn’t long before they were sitting side-by-side on the bed, shirts off, pants unbuttoned.

Sam’s neck was littered in hickeys, and he was getting a little lightheaded.

To put it frankly, he hadn’t been laid in a long time. He hadn’t even gotten horny or jerked off in a while, either. Now, his body was waking up, and waking up with a vengeance. 

He wanted. He needed.

Time blurred by as they touched and made out, and before Sam knew it, Dean was jerking him off, and Sam was fucking his hips up into Dean’s fist, making embarrassing noises in the back of his throat. 

Dean bit his shoulder, then kissed the sore spot. “Can I fuck you?” he whispered, hot breath against Sam’s ear.

Sam shivered. That was something he hadn’t done in over a decade. Something he’d fantasized about a lot lately. “Yes.”

Dean was an expert, confident, calming, with big, gentle hands, and Sam found himself naked on his back being worked open and kissed and complimented in the cheesiest of ways, sweating his brains out.

“So pretty, sugar,” Dean whispered, mostly to himself. “One more finger, sweetheart.”

And just like that, there was another finger, then two, then Sam needed. He just needed. He hooked his legs around Dean’s waist and kept his eyes locked on Dean’s as Dean leaned over him, pushing in. In, in, in.

It hurt at first, slow going, both of them suddenly shy, but Dean moved a little deeper, hitting that perfect spot inside Sam, and Sam hissed, his whole body going hot. He squeezed his eyes shut. “There.”

Dean’s breaths got heavier. He started fucking Sam in earnest, the room filling with the wet slaps of their bodies moving together. “Right there, Sammy?” he panted.

“Yes, y-yes, fuck, Dean,” Sam moaned, holding on for dear life as they kissed and made love.

It was good. It was long awaited. It was just the right amount of pleasure and pain and heat and desperation and slick and saliva. They were panting together, like dogs, sweating on each other, moving, seeking friction, growing mindless, only concerned with being together.

Before long, Sam stretched out, eyes rolling back as his body jolted in an orgasm. 

He hadn’t come in a while, hadn’t come like this ever, and Dean fucked and jerked him through the orgasm, making it last as long as possible, touching him through the aftershocks until Sam was sensitive and dazed. Sam was just barely aware of Dean grunting out some swears, coming inside him, and pulling out.

Sam was about to pass out. Dean had fucked him to death. If this was one of Chuck’s endings, Sam was not going to fucking protest.

Dean came over and cooed at him and cleaned him up and forced him to step into some boxers and a t-shirt. 

Dean climbed into bed after him, and all Sam knew after that was a warm embrace.

***

Sam woke up to the smell of pancakes.

He cracked an eye open, waking up more and more as his stomach growled and his mouth watered.

Dean was standing at his bedside in a candy cane-themed robe holding a tray of breakfast foods. “Hey,” Dean said, smiling so hugely he looked like a dork. “Merry Christmas, bitch.”

Sam was fully awake now. He took the tray. “You didn’t have to do this,” he said. “Merry Christmas, jerk.”

“Naw, after what I did to you last night, might as well nurse you back to health,” Dean said. He was clearly posturing. “When the dick’s that good, gotta rest up.”

“Oh my god,” Sam said, shaking his head. “I didn’t think your ego could get any bigger.”

Dean waggled his hips and eyebrows in impressive sync. “That’s not the only thing that gets bigger.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Dean--”

“We’re under the mistletoe again,” Dean interrupted, looking stupidly hopeful.

Sam’s eye roll turned into a smile. He kissed Dean. He still couldn’t believe this was his reality now. “Who’s the King of Christmas?”

“Eh.” Dean kissed him again. “Maybe just for one year, we could share the title? Then it’s back on next year.”

“Next year,” Sam agreed, feeling warm and soft. He couldn’t stop smiling at Dean. “Wanna open presents?”

“Oh, fuck yes!” Dean exclaimed. “Meet you there!” 

And off Dean went like a rocket.

Sam shook his head, still smiling softly to himself. He got ready, putting on his own candy cane striped pajama pants. 

Maybe the world wasn’t ready for them. 

Maybe it would never be.

Maybe they wouldn’t have a happy ending.

Maybe that was their last Christmas, last kiss, last sex.

Maybe, maybe, maybe. 

Sam could kill himself thinking about maybes.

All that mattered was right now. Sam was going to live for today. He was going to stay in this moment with Dean for as long as he could. 

For now, it was Christmas. 

And Sam could harbor a few dreams.

The End

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you guys, and hope you have a good winter and holiday season!
> 
> <3


End file.
